“Pretty much chimes with the story we got—he didn’t see anything. A bit hard for us to believe, him being on the door and everything, so we had to push that bit further.” Rebus gauged Christie’s reaction to this. If he accepted it, Dean would stay in a job and might end up convinced he owed Rebus a favor at some point in the future. The Range Rover had reached the traffic lights at Buccleuch Street. Christie signaled right, then right again. They were making a circuit. Once the speed bumps on narrow Melville Terrace had been negotiated, they’d more or less be back where they’d started. Waiting for traffic to clear, Rebus couldn’t help looking towards the site of Summerhall police station. Here he was, thirty years down the line, still sharing oxygen with villains. But Darryl Christie seemed to represent change. He was young and hungry, yes, and venal too, but he was also clever—not just street-smart but calculating and astute. Having no weight of his own to throw around, he had found other avenues to success.

“The thing is,” Christie was saying now, “CID interest is bad for business, and business being what it is right now…”

“Don’t tell me the downturn’s hurting you?”

“Economy’s tough for all of us, Mr. Rebus. There’s a lot of competition out there, and when markets contract you try to find new ones, even if that means encroaching.”

“Turf wars? Are you being squeezed?”

“Maybe not quite yet.”

“But you can feel it coming?” Rebus watched as Darryl Christie nodded slowly. “There was a car crash just over a week back, out by Kirkliston. Midevening. We’ve got a few theories.”

“Yes?”

“One is boy racers.”

“And the other?”

“The driver was doing small-time deals right here in Edinburgh. He had a local supplier, but I’m thinking maybe he got greedy or wanted to move up the food chain.”

“Was he anywhere near Livingston?”

Rebus stared at the side of Christie’s head. “It’s possible.”

“Only there’s someone out that way…Not originally; originally he was Glasgow, but he couldn’t hack it there—if you’ll pardon the expression. He moved out to Ayrshire, Lanarkshire…”

“And now Livingston? Very much your neck of the woods, Darryl.”

“Some people think competition can be healthy.” Christie was keeping his eyes on the road, when they weren’t checking the rearview mirror. Each turn he made, he signaled first, always stopping at Give Ways. Rebus had thought Fox a cautious driver, but this was something else again.

“He’s selling drugs?” he asked.

“Just starting to, I think. You’d be doing me a favor if you took him out of the game for a while.” Christie allowed himself a thin smile. “Name’s Rory Bell.”

“I’m a bit busy right now to be doing favors for gangsters.”